Chapter — Intake
The response didn't come immediately.
That confirmed the academy's role more clearly than any description could.
Automated systems answered fast. Filters took time.
I received the update the next morning.
No sound. No urgency marker.
Just a quiet change in the interface.
[APPLICATION STATUS UPDATED]
I opened it without expectation.
NorthspireTransfer & Irregular Intake
Not standard admissions.
Good.
STATUS: ACCEPTABLE
Not approved.
Not rejected.
Acceptable meant I hadn't triggered a refusal condition—but I hadn't met a promotion threshold either.
A holding state.
Details followed.
Aptitude: UndeclaredBackground: CivilianExposure Record: IncompleteRisk Index: Within limits
That line mattered.
Incomplete exposure records were tolerated only when removal cost more than observation.
Next section.
Division Assignment: GreylineClass: D-ClassIntake Type: ProvisionalReview Window: 30 days
Greyline.
So they'd decided where uncertainty belonged.
I accepted without edits.
The academy confirmed instantly.
My system reacted half a second later.
No alert.
Just a background process initializing.
—Baseline comparison enabled—
I closed the interface.
Northspire didn't look like a school.
From the outside, it resembled layered infrastructure—reinforced concrete, vertical spines, controlled access points. No banners. No symbols meant for pride.
Everything about it suggested permanence.
Inside, it was quieter than expected.
A-Class traffic flowed upward—wide corridors, clean lighting, visible staff presence. Greyline intake was routed down.
Lower floors.
Not hidden.
Just out of the way.
Greyline Division occupied repurposed space. The halls were narrower. The lighting consistent but dimmer. Nothing was broken. Nothing was new.
Functional.
That word kept returning.
The intake officer didn't look at me for long.
"Rowan Hale," he said, verifying against his display. "Greyline. Provisional."
No handshake.
No speech.
"You'll attend all sessions. You won't receive sponsors. You won't access restricted facilities."
He paused once.
"If you stabilize, you stay. If you don't, you're reassigned."
No explanation of reassignment.
None was needed.
Training began the same day.
No ceremony.
No orientation beyond a single line on the wall.
Assessment in progress.
There were twenty-one of us.
No formation was assigned. People stood where they stopped walking. Some stretched. Some checked interfaces repeatedly. A few watched others instead of the room.
I chose the back wall.
An instructor entered quietly.
He didn't introduce himself.
"You're in Greyline because the system doesn't know what you are yet," he said. "That's not special."
The floor activated beneath our feet.
"Start."
The first task wasn't combat.
Movement under change.
The floor shifted in shallow, irregular patterns. No obvious rhythm. No optimal path.
Several people reacted immediately—fast adjustments, visible effort. One student surged forward and corrected mid-step, drawing attention.
I waited.
The system wanted to see who committed early.
I moved only after the second shift, choosing a path that stayed consistent instead of short. Shadow remained inactive. No reason to surface it.
I reached the end zone without incident.
No praise followed.
The next task began immediately.
Grip endurance.Balance recovery.Reaction delay.
Simple metrics.
But I noticed the difference in overlays.
Others had expected ranges. Their results snapped into place with green or amber indicators.
Mine didn't.
There was no curve.
Only recording.
Observation without conclusion.
That was worse than judgment.
Someone failed on the fourth day.
His name was Kian.
He was fast. Confident. Always first to act.
During a balance test, he reinforced too early. When the platform compensated, he escalated again instead of letting it correct.
The instructor raised one finger.
The system froze.
"Step down," the instructor said.
Kian argued. Briefly. Calmly. Wrongly.
Two enforcers arrived.
No alarms.
No raised voices.
Kian left between them.
His station remained empty the next session.
No notice appeared.
Greyline didn't announce removals.
That night, my interface adjusted.
Not visibly.
Threat indicators dropped slightly in priority. Environmental updates surfaced faster.
Not an upgrade.
A preference.
The system wasn't helping me.
It was reducing friction around me.
The next day, the instructor spoke to me for the first time.
One sentence.
"You don't force outcomes," he said.
Then he moved on.
I understood.
Greyline didn't reward strength.
It tolerated stability.
Anyone who forced the system to decide too early was removed.
I didn't escalate.
I didn't hesitate.
I stayed within uncertainty.
And because of that, the system delayed its judgment.
For now—
That was enough.